


Daring

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Angst, Crying, Death, Gen, Gore, Mental Breakdown, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2190180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly, you repress. Then shit like this happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daring

Officer Kendall shot her, so she killed him.

She couldn’t afford ammo, so she contracted for Paradise Falls.

She was starving, so she ate a corpse.

She survived. Fuck morals, and how disappointed her father would be, because he was dead. It was a Wasteland, full of desperation, and when she was desperate, she survived. Nothing to be guilty about.

Erin had seen some fucking terrible things- she did a lot of them herself. Pen full of slaves? No worries. Your family was raped and murdered? Sorry for your loss; I’d like to buy all your stimpaks. Pile of month-old corpses? Gross, but she’s still gonna check their pockets.

One night, breaking extensive sleep deprivation, she looked up at the irradiated sky and thought, _I am turning into a psychopath?_ Then she fell asleep, and didn’t think of it again. 

Tenpenny was the easiest, honestly. He lived in his own little fantasy world (a.k.a. the penthouse) and didn’t so much hold any personal dislike for Megaton or the ghouls, he simply seemed uncomprehending to the problems of the outside world. When she sat him down and explained, he was remarkably unopinionated. That made it a lot easier to convince the other residents. Margaret was a sweet old woman who didn’t mind the ghouls one bit, Hawthorne couldn’t care less so long as he had his alcohol, Daring was all for a little excitement, and Doctor Banfield was interested in studying ghouls (she made a mental note to set up correspondence between him and Doc Barrows in Underworld). With Susan already living in Paradise, the only problems were Lydia and the Wellingtons. Well, two of those took care of themselves when she showed Millicent the letter that proved her husband had been cheating: she shot him, and fled. Lydia stomped off in anger when her safe was broken into. Just like that, not twelve hours later, Roy and company were happy residents of Tenpenny Tower.

Then she left.

Four days later, she came back.

She’d seen worse. Much worse. She’d seen people still-breathing, strung up by their vocal chords and tied in their own intestines, and her first thought was that raiders were damn creative. Now, dumbly, she stared.

“Holy shit...” Butch a few steps behind gagged, cleared his throat, and fought back the urge to puke. He choked down a pull of whiskey from his flask, and breathed heavy. “Stinks in here!”

Alistair’s brain leaked out the hole where the side of his skull used to be. Margaret was face-up, eyes open and bulging. Banfield’s arm was across the room from the rest of him, his white coat speckled in bulletholes. Hawthorne- was that Hawthorne?- she couldn’t be sure with his face bashed in. She swallowed. “...Dashwood?”

She kneeled in the pool of blood- a mix of Tenpenny’s, Comrade’s, Margaret’s, fuck knows who else’s- and started pulling at bodies. “Where’s Dashwood!?”

“Who?” Butch asked uncomprehendingly, crossing his arms and glancing over his shoulder.

“Fr-from the radio? Daring Dashwood? Argyle? I found Argyle! I-I was going t-t’ tell ‘im, but- but-!” Her babbling was interspersed by sniffs as she stood and stumbled to the other side of the storage room, the other corpses, boots splashing up the blood. “Wh-where’s Dashwood!? DASHWOOD!?”

She froze, hand tangled in, tugging at Tiffany Cheng’s hair. Her voice was small. “...Daring?”

Butch took a step towards her, then looked at the fluid-slick floor, and put his hand on his gun. “Doc, are you okay?” he hoped, answer obvious.

Erin reached into the pile, bare hand contacting putrefying flesh. Butch thought he was going to be sick again, forced himself not to look as she pulled an arm by the wrist the rest of the corpse after it. She wrapped her arms around, hoisting the body onto her knees and pulling the chest against her own. “Found ‘im.”

Butch got up the courage to look. The old man had one eye poked out of its socket, the other dangling, head hanging limply over the cradle of her sleeve. “Ah, Jesus...!” he gagged, turning his back to the gore. The smell made him cough.

“I found Argyle. He was at Rockopolis, you dumbass.”

She stuffed one of her hands in his pants pocket. “Hey, Dashwood. Guess what? I got your key.” She chuckled, and it seamlessly blended into sobs.

“Come on, let’s get outta here.” Butch called, glancing at her only slightly. “This place gives me the heebee jeebees.” This wasn’t good. Nothing about this could possibly be at all good. He was screwed.

Erin snorted, breathed heavy, shaky, and dropped the corpse with a thud, rising to her feet, wiping her hand on the filthy denim. He heard her draw the 10mm from her belt, and turned. “Whoa, Doc, I don’t think you should be holding a gun right now!”

He swallowed at her glare as she pushed past him, throwing open the door. The Lone Wanderer smiled amiably as she approached the ghoul with the stupid helmet. “Hey, Michael.” she greeted, gun held loosely at her hip, casually putting the other on her hip. “Do you know where Roy is?”

“Yeah, top floor, where he usually is.” he replied.

“Thank you.” she retorted with a kind tip of her head, raising the gun up and out, and shot him twice in the face. Butch stopped, mouth agape. The elevator dinged, Erin got on, and Butch sprinted after, stuck his hand between the doors before they closed. They slid back open, and he kept his hand in front.

Erin had two hands on her gun, tears drying on her cheeks, sniffing up mucus. “Well? You coming, or am I handling Roy myself?”

The Tunnel Snake swallowed. For once, he was speechless. Her hands shook, though her muscles were locked up to keep them from it. Butch stepped in.

It wasn’t quick, like the other one. She put five shots in the guy- one in each leg, one in a foot, two for his shooting hand. Then she tossed his rifle, grabbed the front of his armor, curled her fist, and punched the guy. And she just kept _hitting_ him... Butch backed away, rounded the corner to a little sitting lounge, leaned to the wall and tried not to listen. Over the punching, and the yelling, and the gurgling, he heard crying, and it wasn’t Erin. The last ghoul, the girlfriend. She was hiding in one of these rooms. He adjusted his grip on his gun, and pretended he didn’t hear.

It got quiet not long after. The ghoulette was trying to stay quiet, and he was thankful. Erin strode over, slowly, wiping her hands on her jeans. That made her knuckles bleed more. She sniffed, and focused on her hands, sniffing. Sniffing. Crying.

Butch didn’t really know _what_ to do, so he mumbled half-hearted plagiarisms of things her dad would have said, but that just made it worse. He shut up, and settled for a hand on her shoulder. She’d seen worse, but she’d seen it on better days.


End file.
